


A Walk Home

by Haberdasher



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Gothic, Nonfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2019-09-23 23:37:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haberdasher/pseuds/Haberdasher
Summary: An accurate description of one walk home from work, in suburban gothic style.





	A Walk Home

  * the sidewalks glitter under the warm light of the streetlamps. each square block of concrete began the same, born of machines that poured them into perfectly-square slots, but some are now bumpy and chipped, years of shoes hitting the pavement taking their toll. they glitter just the same as all the rest.
  * there are no people out here. or, rather, there are hundreds of them, thinking and feeling and breathing and going about their business just like you, packed into the roads and lots around you. they are hidden away in the houses that you pass by without a second glance or the cars that zoom by headed to destinations unknown. nobody else is outside this late at night, not when they could shelter themselves from the cold, from the darkness, from the mere presence of the natural world that they foolishly think they have conquered. you see machines made of sleek metal and glass, or homes made from the corpses of the trees which name so many of the streets you pass by. you do not see other people. bright bulbs of light in pairs mask what lies inside these vehicles. people, theoretically. hopefully.
  * a brown plastic bag from a nearby grocery store covers a plant on the corner of one lawn. the plant does not know the difference. the constantly-consulted calendars all say that it should be spring by now, that the town should be well-entrenched in that blessed season of growth, but the chill in the air suggests differently, and what remains of the local wildlife has yet to revive itself fully from the harsh winter. the export of plastic bags from the grocery store to suburb residents, meanwhile, is unaffected by the turn of the seasons.
  * one house has a simple blue outline of a squirrel in the center of its garage door. the squirrels are not out now, but you know them well enough, small timid creatures that hide in bushes or scurry up trees, bolting at the first sign of human proximity. they are right to run. they held this land before we did. we took over their fields, tore down their dwelling places to build our own, and then put their image on our door.
  * the moon does not show its face. there are stars, few in number and faint in presence, but what dominates the vast depths of the night-time sky are the planes passing by, twinkling lights that almost look more like stars than the stars do. there are more people in one of those distant specks of light that you could cover up with your thumb than there are in the entire neighborhood below. in both cases, almost all shall forever remain strangers, a mere footnote in the story of your life, forgotten as soon as they are encountered. you are, in turn, just a footnote to them.
  * all the headlights look the same. all the houses look the same. one house has vibrant pink lights outside their door rather than the usual sickly shade of white-yellow. when you glance away, you can remember little else about that house.
  * you walk by a black garage door. that is your black garage door. that is your house. the others are like it, but yours has a black garage, and that makes it yours. if your next-door neighbors painted their garage door black… well. no reason to think too much about that. it will never happen. they know better.
  * the warmth that clings to your skin as you enter the house makes you feel the chill of the outside air all the more.




End file.
